


Gone By Daylight

by Shuriken7



Series: The North and the South [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: American Civil War, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:43:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shuriken7/pseuds/Shuriken7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Civil War. England is dreading seeing him, he had said too much, felt too much, done things he now regretted. Now he was going to have to face him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The shots of whiskey didn't go down as smoothly as he would have preferred that they did. Each one burned, and reminded him what was about to happen. He paced his study, the old books on the shelves watching his progress as he paced back and forth across the patterned rug. It was too early in the day to be drinking, but he needed it. America was coming, and if his information was correct he was angry. 

England's aide had seemed so concerned at the prospect, the lad's eyes had been wide as saucers when he announced that the American ambassador had not sounded too happy. England had waved the young man off and went straight for the decanter. Finding it nearly empty, he skipped it and grabbed a bottle blindly. America had every right to be angry, England had assisted his rebel faction. He could still remember Confederacy coming to him, gray-blue eyes shining from America's face and promising him so much. He threw back another shot of the whiskey, remembering France telling him that he shouldn't get involved. That no matter the outcome he would be hurting. 

Another burning shot poured down his throat. He leaned back in his chair and knowing that he shouldn't be doing this right now. It wasn't the right thing to do when he was about to be confronted by America. He needed to keep a clear head and keep his emotions out of it. He had too many emotions when it came to that other nation and now was was not the time to be feeling them. He needed to keep a clear mind. He reached for the neck of the bottle again, the intention to put it into a decanter already forgotten. It was then that he saw the label, who put American whiskey in front of him?! He threw it at the wall, shattering the glass and staining the wall and carpet with the liquid. The fumes from the alcohol began to fill the room, as his aide walked in to see what the sound had been. He tentatively came towards him, as though she were afraid he was having some kind of fit. Perhaps he was. He was far too drunk to care. 

"Mr. England."

"What is it James?" 

"Are you alright?" He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and offered it to his nation. England waved it away. He ignored the question inquiring about his state of being.

"I will be seeing the United States of America elsewhere. Have him meet me in the tea parlor." He brushed past the young man, and headed out, down the hall. He stumbled a few times, but luckily no one was around to see his disgrace. He glanced at the clock on the hall wall, he had about a half hour to sober it. He was sure that it would be enough, he just needed a cup of tea. He called for a servant to brew him a pot as he sank into one of the chairs. This room smelled much less of dust, history, and spilled alcohol and more of comfort, flowers, and tea. Already his nerves were calmed, although his head felt no clearer.

He had been a fool, going over there to see how he was. He shouldn't have bothered with America's business after the Trent Affair. He should have handled that and been done with it, but there had been something about the vulnerable look in America's eye that had touched something within him. Stirred something old that he didn't want to acknowledge he even had for America anymore. Canada's message stirred him to similar thoughts, that's why he had come. He put one hand on his forehead as he remembered the things he had felt, they felt so distant, so foreign now. He was numbed to them, after they had kept him awake for countless nights. He heard the clink of the teapot as the servant set it down. The quiet sound of the tea hitting the china tea cup. He thanked whomever it was, not looking up, reaching for the cup. His fingers found the smooth handle and he brought the cup to his lips. The quiet footsteps signaled the servant's exit.

He took a few slow slips, already feeling as though his head were clearing. He tried to ignore the stolen kiss he had taken from America's lips or the unreadable look he had received from Canada the next day. Canada knew somehow, and something had been in Canada's eyes that he couldn't understand. He didn't understand their relationship, Canada was always there when America was in trouble. He had gone to him even when America was trying his hardest to take him as a trophy. Could they be..? He didn't want to think about it. 

He poured himself another cup, trying to focus on the quiet sounds of the garden and not the turmoil he could feel building amongst the diplomats. They were all awaiting the American storm. He swore he could hear him coming before he even entered the building. His footfalls were so heavy, except when he wanted them to be quiet. His voice so loud. His presence so absolute, it was impossible to ignore him when he entered a room. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he heard America making his way down the hallway. He would be here any second and his head was still pounding a little. He should have brought his flask in from the other room, that would have been a better idea. He had been on the right track before, not now that he was trying to sober up. He made a point to stare at the tea pot when America entered the room. He would have to thank the servant for choosing a plain one. That way if one of them broke it, it wouldn't be much of a loss.

He stood, offering a hand to America. "Good day, America."

America's shoulders were hunched, he had done that since he was a child. It was a sure sign that he was stressed over something. England knew exactly what it was. "It's not a good day." 

"No need to be petulant..."

"Petulant is you sending ships to the Confederacy, and agreeing to see his diplomats." America snapped. England closed his mouth and looked away from him. He sat back down at the table, bringing the cup of tea to his lips. He half-expected America to knock it from his hand, but he just sat, looking too stiff and formal at the other side of the table. He flipped over the other cup and lay his spoon across it. Not taking tea in England's presence hadn't changed in the slightest. They sat in tense silence, which made England more nervous than if America had been yelling. At least if he was saying ridiculous things he would be able to respond, this silence made him feel as though he should speak. He just sipped at the tea, wondering the best way to express to America why he had done the things that he did. 

"Why?" America asked, tilting his head in question. 

"Why what?"

"You know."

"You want to know why I would support the states in rebellion." America nodded. England thought for a moment, "I don't know."

"Is it because he said he'd love you?" England almost dropped the cup, it clattered against the saucer rather loudly when he was able to set it down. He opened his mouth to deny, "I know that you took him up on his offer when he was here. You don't have to lie about it."

England felt his face flush in embarrassment, "How do you know?"

"He told me, in detail, what he had given to you in exchange for ships. I told him that he was an idiot that he would sell himself for so little. Was it not enough? You couldn't just watch him twist the knife in my gut, you had to sleep with him too?"

England just stared at him, Confederacy had told America some tall tales, but he couldn't deny that he had almost been there. "He told you a lie. Although, I won't deny that he offered and I was tempted."

"Stand up."

"What?" America got up from his chair and stood in front of him.

"Stand up."

"So you can knock me down? I'd rather not."

America clenched his fists, "I don't need to knock you down. I'm sure you're already plenty embarrassed by all of this. As you should be."

"If you are looking for an apology America, you are not going to get one. You should know all about not following through on apologies." America leaned over his chair and leaned far too close to him. He could smell drink on America's breath, apparently he had felt the need for liquid courage on his way here as well. The last time a pair of American eyes had been looking into his, they were the wrong pair. They had been a stormy grey-blue, angry, and yearning and saying all of the sweet things he wanted these eyes to tell him. He had let those storm grey eyes kiss him. He had let him kiss him a second time and let him stay close. He had let him put his arms around his neck and deepen the kiss. He had touched and been touch, but when his shirt was halfway off and the other America was on his back beneath him, he had stopped. He had pulled away, gathering his things and walking to the door. Those eyes had looked broken, hurt. He had sent him back with some ships for reasons he couldn't even remember.

"I'm not looking for an apology." America replied, "I want to know why."

England tried to look away, but America grabbed his chin and kept him there. "You wouldn't believe the truth."

America knelt down, his chest pressing against England's knees, effectively keeping him trapped against the back of his chair. "Try me."

England looked back into those questioning eyes and couldn't think of how to explain. So he decided not to, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against America's. They felt right now, not the too hot, too chapped that they had been as he kissed him while he was sleeping. America turned his face, breaking the kiss. England could see how shocked he was.

"What are you doing?"

"Giving you an answer."

America turned back to him, confusion stamped across his face. "England... I..."

England could feel the flush spreading down his neck, he was humiliated. "I apologize, I should not have done that. Now if you do not want to speak diplomacy I think you should leave."

America nodded and stood up, he walked away looking dazed and England noticed him put a finger to his lips as he left. He heard his footsteps quickly retreat, going to the room he had been assigned. England put his head in his hands and leaned over. The alcohol was buzzing through him now and he felt sick. The blood pounding through his flush faced gave him a headache. He needed to go lie down. 

Once inside his room he stretched across the bed, grateful for the soft sheets and comfort that it provided. He would let his diplomats work this one out, if he didn't need to see America this entire visit he would appreciate it. He had never been so humiliated. He had never felt so foolish. He had tipped his hand, and now America knew. He lay there in a daze, watching the shadows creep across his ceiling. It had been the early afternoon when America had arrived, but now it was most certainly evening. Soon it would be night. He got up to change into his night shirt, the loose clothing feeling much better than the clothes he had put on for the meeting. He was just pouring water into his wash basin when he heard a knock at the door. It must have been a servant. He called for the person to come in, continuing to pour.

He was just dipping his hands into the water to wash his face when the person spoke. He whirled, America was standing there. He was no longer in the dress clothes he had been in early, just a simple shirt and pants. Although they were the more modern fashion, it was still the same simple clothing that America had always been fond of. "A-America!? What are you doing here!?" He grabbed for a robe, it was indecent for anyone to be so exposed in front of another person. He wrapped it around himself as America looked away, at least he was polite enough to do that. He synched the belt firmly about his waist and turned to face the younger man, arms crossed and feeling embarrassed. 

"I... uh... wanted to ask you something..."

"Well, I'm listening."

"I wanted to know what you meant by kissing me." America blushed and looked at him sheepishly. He rubbed self-consciously at the back of his head. England stared at him for a moment, then he sighed.

"It was meant as a kiss." he said looking away. He stared at the oil lamp that was sending flickering shadows against his wall. He started when he felt America's fingers on his chin, turning his face, soft lips pressing against his. America was... sucking on his lower lip and sliding a hand underneath his dressing robe. He started and pushed him away. He could still taste the alcohol from the other's lips. "America, what are you doing?"

"Isn't this what you want?" He came closer to him again, reaching around to wrap his arms around his waist.

"You are drunk."

"So are you."

"I was drunk." And that was why I had the poor sense of judgement to kiss you. America's hands felt nice against his shoulders and despite the alcohol he smelled good... and no. He needed to push away that hand that was warm and strong against his chest and that delicious tongue that was in his mouth and that warm body that had somehow gotten above him on the bed. No. He pushed at him slightly, and when he didn't stop grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled him backwards.

"My head feels fuzzy..." 

"Because you are drunk."

"You know I was scared to see you... I thought you and Confederacy..." America lay his head down on his shoulder, his warm weight still on top of England's body. England put his hand on America's head.

"I didn't. It's alright, America." He ran his fingers through his hair and felt America sigh and relax. "And now I'm only going to say this next part to you since there is no possible way you could remember in the morning."

"What?"

"I couldn't do it. He was giving me everything I wanted, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't you. He was you, but not in the same way. You're all of that, he was just one small part of you."

"I love you, England." America said, nuzzling his nose against the fabric on his shoulder. England's eyes widened and his heart started to pound. It's just the alcohol, he told himself, Don't read too much into it. Except he wanted to hear those words again, accepting that they didn't hold the boyish affection they once did. They were the words of an adult, one that knew that he wanted something and was willing to give something in return. England didn't resist as America put his mouth on his neck and begin to kiss his skin. He would be done soon enough.

When America finally passed out from the drink England was both relieved and frustrated. He knew it was for the best, but he wondered what other things America would say when his tongue was loosened. Perhaps it would be more wonderful declarations. And maybe once he sobered, he would want... England flushed at the thought, it was a poor plan to think about such contingencies when America had passed out on top of him. The poor lad. He rolled him gently on to his side and lay there beside him. 

"America, I was there too when Canada let me in and told me what had happened. I was so worried... I..." he paused, praying that America was truly out, "I love you, I don't know when it changed from loving you as a little brother to loving all of you. I hope your words were not false." He pressed their foreheads together and just held him, ignoring the strong smell that emanated from the younger nation due to the liquor. His headache began to get the better of him and he closed his eyes.

He didn't realize he had fallen asleep, until he was waking the next morning, dawn light falling across his eyes. His bed was cold and empty. He sighed and called for some fresh water in his room. America had left. He wondered what the other's reaction had been, had he realized he had wandered into England's room? Was he horrified? Was he pleasantly surprised? 

He took a deep breath and realized that he was going to have to face the day, perhaps now with a hungover America. The mess had begun, and he felt a bit like he had joined a farce that he didn't remember beginning or agreeing to.


	2. What I Want?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Civil War. Sequel to Gone By Daylight. England can't get over that night, and he needs some advice... even if it's the last person he wants to ask.

He couldn't forget it. England lay awake in his bed, he was not sure how many nights in a row, but his mind would not let it go. It would not let go of the feeling of America's lips against his, the feeling of his hands on his shoulders, the touch of his lips to his neck. The smell of the alcohol that could have made it all a lie. He groaned and rolled over, pulling the pillows to cover his head. Nothing could drown out the sound of America's whisper, "I love you, England."

He flung the pillow off the bed, satisfied that it tipped the wash basin over. The clang stopped it for at least a moment. He sent the servant who came to check on him away as soon as the man arrived. He needed something to make him forget. He needed something else. He got up and called the man back, telling him to get his horse ready and to send for a boat to be readied at the dock. As much as he hated to acknowledge it, he needed someone right now. And unfortunately the first person who came to mind was not possible, and that left one other. He pulled on his riding clothes with few thoughts in his head except getting away from the bed that America had lain on with him, even if the younger man had been in a drunken stupor. Just looking at the sheets made his mind imagine what it would have been like if he had no conscience, if he had just let America give him the things that he offered. He knew it was for the best, but his heart had a hard time believing it. 

He rode hard and fast, even the darkness with the ocassional oil lamp not enough to calm him. England tried to let himself fall into a bit of a stupor, just focusing on the pound of the horse's hooves and the rushing of leaves past his head. His mind had just began to wander when an errant branch caught him across his left brow and he stopped for a moment, cursing his misfortune. He kicked the steed on, the cut not too bad enough to stop. He didn't stop until he could smell the ocean. He gave his horse over to the man waiting for him at the dock, throwing the rope off and striking out into those open waters. The boat seemed to direct itself across the Channel. The constant movement of the ship and the need for readjustments kept him busy, and it kept him from thinking about what he was about to do. 

He was surprised when he found France waiting for him on the dock. "You know you should really learn to send a telegram first, England."

"I was planning on ruining your evening." he replied. France smirked at him and gave him a teasing bow, gesturing towards his home. England knew the way well and they walked in silence. He could sense France watching him, judging him, trying to figure out what would bring him to his shores in the middle of the night. England was uncomfortable, feeling as though the eyes of every person they passed stared directly inside, knowing exactly about the darkness in his heart. He breathed a sigh of relief once the door closed behind France. 

He turned and pushed France against the door, leaning up to brush their lips together. France didn't dissapoint him with the way he kissed back. It wasn't until he was sliding his fingers through the buttons of France's shirt that France reached for his hands and held on to them. England broke away and yanked his hands back. He sank into one of France's armchairs, feeling angrier and more humiliated than he had before. He groaned, putting his face into his hands. "God damn it France!" he cursed.

He heard France sigh and lean up from the door, going over to sit on the sofa by the chair. He reached out a hand and put it on his knee. England shifted so France couldn't touch him. "Normally I would be happy to oblige you, my friend. But I can tell it is not me that you want, which makes me wonder why you are here." He offered him a handkerchief to dry the blood on his forehead. England dabbed at the small wound, cursing the stupid branch again.

"I have no reason to be here if you won't."

"And yet you do not move and came here in the middle of the night."

"Shove off, France."

"You are in my home." he replied cooly. England could sense the bemused expression that France must be wearing at the spectacle he was making. He knew he must look quite the child sitting curled up in the chair as he was. He sighed and tried to unwind. For just a moment he wanted to go back to the place where he could rely on France, even though it was hardly true anymore.

"I... need you." France raised an eyebrow, "Not like that, I was just hoping you would distract me. And don't act hurt over that, I know you don't really care."

France shrugged, "Then we can just be ourselves today. I swear that whatever you confide in me will only be between us."

England bit his lip, they had made promises like this more than once. They had known each other for longer than they could count, and sometimes they just needed the person who knew them as well as they knew themselves, even if there were problems between them politically. He nodded and opened his mouth to speak, "It's America..."

"I told you not to get involved..."

"I know you bloody well told me! It's too fucking late now!" he shouted, glaring at him. France looked a little taken aback. 

"I'm sorry, England. What happened?"

England flushed, suddenly feeling as though his tongue were made of lead, "France... I... I have feelings for him."

He colored darker, knowing the terrible truth of those words when he let them out to someone else. He cared about America in a way he shouldn't. France gave him a pitying expression, "Angleterre, a blind man would recognize that you have feelings for him. I had a feeling you wouldn't be able to stay away."

"He was hurting so badly... and I felt as though my heart were being torn out. I... I... I..." the words wouldn't come.

"...you love him?" France asked, and England started, France said it so casually... "You yearn for him?"

England furrowed his brow, "That sounds so lewd." 

"Do you deny it?" France smirked. England opened and closed his mouth several times, wanting to refute the assertion. 

He sighed in defeat and shook his head. 

"When he visited you last... did you act on it? What did he do? Were you rejected?" France asked the last question with as much delicacy as he could muster, which ultimately wasn't much. England looked at him between his fingers, feeling even more embarrassed. However, he lowered his hands and stared down at the tips of his shoes.

"No, he had been drinking and I'm sure his head wasn't in a good place. He probably doesn't know what he feels. But he..." He raised his fingers to his lips, he caught sight of France's face, "For God's sake! Don't look at me like I am the most pathetic person on the planet!" 

"Do you think he knows? How you feel?"

"I don't know, I think he may suspect. Confederacy practically threw himself at me so... he may have said something. Don't look at me like that!"

France shook his head, "For someone who has risen so high, you sure do end up stepping in it."

"That's not fair, you don't do yourself any favors either."

"Point taken, but... Angleterre, you have made things most complicated for yourself. It was like when you and I were young..." France looked at him pointedly.

"Shut up, we were stupid back then."

"You do not think you are being stupid for America now?" France sighed and came over to kneel by his chair. England looked at him, wondering what he wanted now, "I knew, the moment you lay eyes on him that you were changed. Maybe not your government, maybe not your people, but you. Sometimes we have those effects on each other. I've been around longer than you, I've seen it happen."

"France... I don't know what I should do..." He cursed himself inwardly as soon as the words slipped through his lips. He didn't want to show any weakness in front of France... even though he was probably giving away more than he wanted just by sitting in France's armchair. France reached over and patted his knee before standing up and walking out of the room. England wasn't entirely sure why he was leaving, but his curiosity was answered when a wine glass was dangled in front of his face. He accepted it and downed it in one swallow. France filled it up immediately.

"Problems like these need good wine." he said. England tried to drink more slowly, not wanting to make any more embarrassing slips in judgement. Yet before he knew what was happening the drink was downed. France was right there with the bottle, thankfully being silent. In the silence England began to chew over a question that he really didn't want to have to ask.

"France... what would you do?" he cringed as it came out, sensing he wouldn't like the answer.

France gave him a rakish smile, "I think you know what I would do."

He knew it, he didn't like the answer. He frowned and glared at the other nation, "I am not propositioning him the next time I see him."

"Your loss, my friend, such an action rarely fails me." France said, flipping his hair over his shoulder. England reached over and punched him in the arm. France gave him a hurt look for a moment before smiling. "There's the England I know. Do you want my opinion or not?"

"Do I have a choice?" he groaned, slumping back into his chair.

"You need to tell him how you feel." England gave him an incredulous look, "Don't look at me that way Angleterre, you will not know how he feels until you say something! Love can not happen if you keep everything bottled up inside!"

England sighed and slumped back in the chair, before he reached for the bottle of wine. He was going to need a lot more drink if he was going to even give France's suggestion a second thought.


	3. Dominion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> July 1, 1867 was the day Canada was confederated into the Dominion of Canada. England can't seem to make himself be proud of the former colony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While the first two chapters of this work were originally standalones that I had written ages ago, I've been asked by a few folks to wrap the story up! I'd like to thank you for your compliments and that there will be three additional chapters to the original two. Thank you for reading!

_July 1, 1876_

"To the Dominion of Canada!" France said, raising his glass for what may have been the thousandth toast of the day. Cheers and fireworks had made a cacophony all day to celebrate Canada's confederation. The newest toast was a fire quieter affair, relegated to Canada's simple drawing room amongst the plush arm chairs and oil lanterns that kept the room nearly as bright as it had been in the day.

England raised his glass, his arm feeling heavy. Canada's reserved smile spoke his pleasure and England tried to concentrate on the slow burn of the scotch in his throat and stomach as France continued the congratulations. England settled himself into an armchair near the damped fire. It may have been July, but the night had cooled with the loss of the sun.

He should feel prouder, happier, he told himself as he poured another glass for himself.  Canada and France were now sitting on one of the small couches speaking to each other in French. England didn't bother to follow the conversation. He should be proud that Canada had proved trustworthy enough for some autonomy, and clever enough to wrench it from England's tight grip. Of course, Canada would have known the strategic drop of a possible alliance with his brother would gain him something to bargain with.

England stared into the bottom of his glass, the thin film of alcohol at the bottom glinting in the flickering light. Those political cartoons had plagued him for too long, perhpas they would now be done. No one had shoved one under his nose in weeks, the other European nations had found them obscenely funny, and England had quickly grown tired of being the butt of the humor. The cartoons that had pariticularly raised his ire had always depicted Canada as a sweet looking lass trying to escape the clutches of an old crone, Mother Britannia. The young girl was constantly being tempted by the charming overtures of a young man, a depiction of America. The drawings all looked nothing like them, even if France had stuffed a matron's bonnet on England's head one night after an ill-advised night of drinking.

"Mr. England, are you all right?" England jolted out of his thoughts and looked over the rim of his glass to Canada's concerned face. The young nation's face had been schooled to seriousness, manners defeating any exuberance he may be feeling.

Before he could respond, France leaned on the sofa so he could throw an arm over Canada's shoulder. "Perhaps you could go down to your kitchen and find us something to eat, mon fils?" Canada looked unsure, but further prodding had him up from the sofa and being ushered out the door.

"I won't be long." Canada threw over his shoulder right before the door clicked with a shut behind him. The silence following his departure lasted only a moment, the time it took France to cross the room and sink into the armchair beside England's.

"One would think you were at a funeral for how dower you have been this evening. In fact, your mood has been foul all day." France pulled a silver cigarette box from his waist coat and settled it onto the arm of the chair, fussing with the tobacco and papers. England watched his long fingers. France did not speak again until he'd lit a match and breathed his first puff of smoke in England's direction. The smell reminded him instantly of drying barns throughout Virginia and South Carolina. He coughed.

"You should make more of an effort to not ruin this for Canada." England coughed again, standing abruptly from his chair and turning his back on the other. "...England?"

He couldn't stop coughing. He stood before the fire now, one hand braced against the mantle, plraying the dry air would calm hi lungs. It was not an affliction of his body, he knew. However, he did not want France to know. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket he pressed it to his mouth, muffling the sound. France hovered behind him, the cigarette discarded, a soothing hand on England's back. Several minutes passed until the heavy cough subsided and he straightened. He kpet the handkerchief pressed to his mouth as he took deep breaths. France's palm cupped his cheek and England knew he must feel hot the way France's expression turned more serious.

"What is going on?" England jerked away from his touch and his question, but France persisted.

"Lay off me will you?!" England said, knocking France's arm away with the hand that had been holding the cloth. England relaized the error he had made in temper. France's eyes had widened at the bright blood on the white linen. England could feel blood still at the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away with a curse.

Tossing the soiled linen into the fire he turned from France's bewildered expression. England sighed, "I don't want him to see. He had to pick July..."

"England."

"What?"

"Does this happen every July?"

"Only at the beginning." he said, not turning to the other.

"For how long?" He did turn then, giving France an incredulous look. If the French nation could not put two and two together he certainly would not lead him to it. France frowned. "If I were to wager I would bet money on some time around 1783."

"The year you gleefully rubbed my nose in my own failure? I don't remember." He headed back for the decanter of whiskey, staring at the liquid, wondering if he could numb himself to the brink of composure.

"If I had known you were in love with the boy--"

"I did love him then." England interrupted, "But I was not 'in love' with him. Damn it, France, I don't know what this bloddy thing between us is."

"I take it you did not take my advice. You still have not said anything to him. Who knew the mighty British Empire was such a coward."

England glared at him, "I am not a coward."

"You must be if you can't bear to talk to him." England closed the distance between him and curled his fingers in France's collar. He wanted to punch him. France gave him a competitive look, daring him to do it.

"You don't understand." France's mouth thinned and he said nothing. After a moment, England's fingers loosened their grip and he stepped back. England considered the expression and chose to be grateful his companion was now silent. He dropped back  into his chair and decided on the next shot of whiskey.

France turned away from him and stared into the flames. "You are wrong."

~*~

They sat in silence. The clock on the mantle ticked away the minutes, adding its impatient voice to the small sounds of the house. England felt stifled, trapped into his seat. He felt as though France were somehow occupying more space than he should, taking all the available air in the the room. He stood up, gripping the back of the chair as his head spun for a moment. The abrupt movement caught France's attention. "Where are you going?"

"I simply need some air. Just let Canada know I have stepped out into the garden for a moment."

"You better come back in a better disposition. For Canada's sake."

"England didn't respond as he pushed his way out of the drawing room and started down the hall towards the back door. His footsteps were muffled by the plush carpets. The hall lights had been put out, but England had been in this house many times. His feet knew the way and he left the route to them, hoping his mind would find some quiet. As France and his opinions got farther away, he hoped the pain he was feeling would remove itself as well.

He passed the corridor down to the kitchen and noticed that no sound came from the room. He took the detour and saw the tea tray half done up, Canada nowhere to be seen. That was odd. Perhaps he had taken some air in the garden as well? He turned to continue his journey outside when he heard muffled voices coming from the front parlor. He must have been so lost in his thoughts he had missed it when he came down the stairs. He could hear Canada talking to someone, and curiousity getting the better of him he peeked around through the open door.

A few candles had been lit in the room casting shadows across the wall paper and framed art. England's eyes fell on Canada who grasped someone elses hands. His smile was wide, he rarely smiled like that. The smile was mirrored by the other occupant of the room. England's heart leapt into his throat, his pulse pounding.

_America..._

France had not been far from the mark with his insinuation that England was actively avoiding the object of his... whatever America had become to him.

They spoke to each other quickly, quiet but exuberant. Their words sounded mumbled to England's ears. It was English, but in the form they had developed on their own in his long absences from them. England took in the scene and his pounding heart slipped down to his knees when America pulled Canada into an embrace, the other returning the hold with as much force. He turned away, leaning against the wall in the hallway feeling the part of an unwitting voyeaur. Damn it all, had he been right? Voices could no longer be heard from the room, no doubt their ardent embrace kept them too occupied to speak.

His hands were on the backdoor before he consciously thought to remove himself. The hedges and rose bushes that he had planted when Canada was small tugged at his evening coat until he found a bench to collapse onto him. He let the night soak into him, ignoring the fairy lights out further between the trees and the occassional hummingof a late night insect buzzing past his ear.

At some point he must have let the liquor in his body get the better of him, for it was daylight when he awoke. Disoriented, he blinked at the canopy cloth over his bed. Embarrassed, he slid out of the blankets and quickly dressed. The scent of breakfast wafted through the house.

~*~

Canada stood up when England entered the room, an old habit he'd had from when he still hsared the title of British America with his twin. America had taken it and changed it to his own upon declaration of his independence.

"And here I thought you would be abed until noon!" France declared as soon as England sank into his chair. England reached for the tea pot.

"I'm sorry to hear you were feeling poorly last night, Mr. England. Mr. France said ti was better to leave you asleep."

"America was such a dear boy to not only discover where you were hiding, but to put you to bed." added France.

England nearly choked on his tea. "A-America?!"

"Yes, he came to congratulate Canada you see. We all had a lovely time, shame you were unwell." France stressed the word 'unwell' into a mockery. England stared at him, still feeling bewildered. England chose not to reply, althought he caught Canada's eye across the table. Canada looked down at his breakfast plate.

"I had asked him to stay for breakfast, but he left around dawn saying he had business to attend to." _He stayed all night..._ England looked away from Canada's face certain he had detected a blush which spoke to him of exactly what the North Americans got up to when he was around. He was certain of it.

France raised an eyebrow when he caught England's eye. He seemed unconcerned or unaware of what England had seen passing between the two young nations last night.

_Your advice is useless. I couldn't tell him now. His heart belongs to another._

 


	4. Letters and Cowardice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> France is never going to let it go until England does something about it.

Summer 1893

_And if I expand my efforts here, there should be some new trade opportunities_... England thought as he leaned over a map and pushed around a few colored blocks representing his own naval forces. He pondered a few of the other colors on the map, rivals and neutrals. He leaned over in his chair to reach for the thick leather-bound ledger, frowning at some of the numbers.

Stuck between two pages an envelope caught his attention. It must have been dislodged when he had been flipping back towards the entries from months earlier. He picked at the paper and it slid out easily. He turned it over to see who it was from. His heart jumped, recalling why he had so hastily shoved it between the pages of the book.

_America..._

Flipping open the envelope he pulled out the invitation, ignoring the folded note beside it for a moment. It was the invitation to the World's Fair in Chicago. He had sent a delegation, but he did not intend to go himself. Attempted to push the card back into the envelope he was forced to pull out the note in order to make it fit. He had never read the letter, the creases still in the same position they had been when the sender folded it up. He considered putting it right back into the envelope and forgetting about it once again. But America seemed in the air today, his own trade routes beginning to intersect more and more of his own. It was becoming harder than ever to avoid him in thought, even if he'd still managed to get away with it in person.

He opened the letter carefully, as though the paper may burst into flames at any moment.

_England,_

The door slamming open nearly caused him to knock over his ink bottle. He hastily folded and shoved the letter into the back of the ledger before looking up to see who had intruded on his morning.

"You were right, France! He's gone from being a soldier to a clerk! Ha!" Prussia laughed as though his statement was the height of wit. France came into the room behind him, pulling the door shut.

"Who knew all it took to rule the world was getting back pains from stretching over books of numbers!" said France, striking a pose as if he were reciting some great and ancient wisdom. "We have been going about it all wrong!"

England frowned and slammed his ledger book shut as Prussia leaned on the back of his chair. He looked between them, wishing they would merely go away. When it seemed there was no hope of that through silence he turned to stare at France who was messing up his map by shifting some of the figures upon it into lines. England let out a frustrated sigh and said, "Well I don't see either of you with an empire. Hmmm, how did your last attempt go France? Prussia?" He received two unamused looks. Good, maybe you'll go away.

No luck.

"Now, now, _mon ami_. Here we were going to invite you out for a drink and you insult us!"

Suspicion flooded England's mind. "Since when am I invited to one of your infamous outings?"

"Since you've become an insular loser." Prussia said, patting England on the shoulder, "All you do is mope around with that Japan fellow and sit in here squinting at maps and numbers."

"I hardly mope--"

France had picked up a piece of paper and was making a show of reading it. England cursed himself. He may have shoved the note in between the ledger papers, but he had not managed to hide away the invitation that America had sent so many months ago.

"All right, 'hardly moping' and avoiding certain young nations that are making a splash with the Colombian Bicentennial Exhibition. Young _Amerique_ has been a fine host. Shame we've not seen hide or hair of you."

"France..." England said, threat evident in his voice. If France insinuated anything else in front of Prussia he was going to have to do something about it. France gave a delicate shrug and smiled.

Prussia shook the back of England's chair, nearly rattling him out of it. "C'mon! Let's go drink! I have a little brother to toast!" Prussia led the way out of the room and France waited until England was right beside him.

"You're never going to let this go are you?"

"Not until you do something about it."

"You’re a pushy bastard you know that?"

"I have to take some credit for your success. Without me you'd get nowhere." England rolled his eyes and pushed past the older nation, gathering his coat on the way out of the house, the thrust of the day changing for what he was sure was for the worst.

~*~

Next thing England knew he'd been bundled off to a pub and shoved into the back of a booth, unable to make any attempts at escape unless he climbed over the table. There were certainly contingencies where he might consider it. He let Prussia and France prattle on about this or that as he drank his pint.

"I saw my little brother's name in that book of yours. You better not be planning on anything." Prussia said, turning to England. He had effectively cut France off in the middle of an announcement of a latest Paris fashion.

"I am merely keeping an eye on things. You should all be doing the same."

"You should be more concerned about that former brat of yours. He's outstripped us all in a fraction of the time. At least he remembered some of the lessons from yours truly..." England stared into the bottom of his glass as Prussia continued to congratulate himself over a history that England would much rather forget. Would they ever lose their delight in tormenting him with it?

Another glass was dropped in front of his spot as the conversation turned towards some of the exhibits of the World's Fair, Prussia bragging about the German display and France mentioning some of his own work that he'd put in. They talked a little bit of America and what they had seen of him when they had visited.

America did not even sound like he was the same boy who had barged into his room over a decade ago, angered at lies and wanting to tell England how he felt. He did not even sound like the boy who would find him in the garden and tuck him peacefully into bed without saying a word. He squashed the memory and recalled why he had failed to seek him out before returning to Europe years ago. Why he had not even written. Why he had not been able to bear opening that letter for months.

"England."

"What?"

"While I would normally find your inattention amusing, we were asking you a question." said France, tapping on a spot on the table before England's seat.

"And what was that?"

"When are you going to be visiting little _Amerique_?"

"What do you mean?"

"He's worked so hard on the event, and you won't even make an appearance?" said France. England glared at him across the table.

"Shove over, Prussia." Without waiting for a response he practically pushed Prussia out of the booth, much to his companions’ surprise. He was out the door before either could grab him or plead with him to come back. France was being a stubborn bastard, and he was not in the mood to be berated over it.

_I am not a coward._

He knew he was being goaded by the others, but he felt it seeping in. He had been a fool to be weak in front of France all those years ago. He was going to put a rest to the whole matter. He would be attending the World's Fair.

On the day before his departure he was flipped through his ledgers to make sure there was nothing else he needed to delegate to his brothers while he was away. The folded note appeared between the pages, creased over crossways from the hasty concealment. He picked it up and tucked it into his jacket pocket before leaving for the docks.

~*~

The steam ship made a voyage that used to take months take a mere week. England was blown away when he saw New York harbor for the first time in half a century. Everything seemed to have grown tall. The Statue of Liberty stood proudly in the harbor, holding up her torch to beckon the world towards opportunity.

It was so like France to have given such a flashy gift and leave America with the cost of assembling it. He considered the statue as he waited for the ship to dock. She represented a dream, surely, but what of her reality? Although he had kept to himself for most of the voyage, he knew some of these families and individuals would never again set foot on his shores. They would disembark and become America's.

_Become America's..._

The porter called for passengers to prepare for leaving the ship and England returned to his room to check his luggage and to make sure he had left nothing laying about. _Everything in place_ , he thought, patting his pocket to make sure of his pocket watch and billfold. His hand paused over the letter that he still had not opened and left it where it lay against his breast. The reminder of the note’s presence gave him pause over what he was doing. He had sent no word, would America even know he was here? The nation stretched from sea to shining sea as America was fond of saying, he could be anywhere. Would England maybe be able to get away with this "visit" without actually seeing him? Would that be enough to prove to the others that he was not a coward?

What would come would come, he decided, stuffing a hat onto his head and gathering his suitcase. He had traveled light, far easier to flee with at a moment's notice. Not that he had any mind of running away. Truly.

He felt both relieved and surprised when he managed to buy a train ticket to Chicago without America appearing. Perhaps the boy was too dense after all to the nuanced knowledge that another nation was lurking about on his shores. Or perhaps, England considered, America was going to avoid him as well.

The train ride passed in a blur of changing landscapes. Cities gave way to farms to towns and stretches of forest. England tried to amuse himself with a dime novel, then a newspaper, and even turning America's unopened letter over and over in his hands. None of it could hold his attention. Only the images of America's landscape held his attention for any length of time. Once this place had been a foreboding wilderness or a claim of France's. Now it was transformed, a mix of his own culture with flavors of other Europeans and sometimes a shock of something he'd only seen in the far reaches of the world. Apart the designs and layouts would be something else, but together they were American.

England dozed, his cheek pressed to the cool glass of the window. He only woke when the jolt of the train leaving a station. He blinked, just barely seeing the sign to let him know he was still hours away from his destination. He blinked at his reflection in the glass and noticed the other person in his compartment for the first time. A man now sat diagonal to him, long legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed. A cap was pulled low on his forehead obscuring his eyes. His arms were crossed, his pose relaxed, perhaps napping himself.

It would not do to be caught openly examining the newcomer, so he watched him out of the corner of his eye, chin resting in his hand, eyes ready to flick back at the cityscape passing beyond the sooty window if his companion was not actually asleep and tried to catch his eye.

He took in the broad shoulders and the curve of the man's cheek when recognition struck. He inhaled sharply in surprise. The other man's mouth quirked into a smile, awake after all. "I was wondering how long it was going to take you to recognize me." He tilted his hat back.

"America... how did you...?"

"France sent me a wire. Said you were finally coming. I was, uh, starting to think you were going to miss the whole thing. That would have been a shame because it's pretty swell."

"Well, I thought..." England paused, not sure what he really did think, he went for a standby, "I thought you wouldn't want me here."

"I wouldn't have invited you if I didn't want you to come. You did get my invitation?" England nodded. America's smile shifted suddenly from bright confidence to something smaller, almost shy. He drew his hat off his head and ran a hand through his hair. "And?" he said, meeting England's eye.

For a moment, England was distracted by a flash of light off the younger nation's glasses. America had been wearing them since the 1840s, but they still seemed odd. He was still unused to them, having seen the American only a handful of times in the last century. And most of those times he'd either been filled with rage or despair and had not made note of the spectacles. Silence stretched between them and America's expectant gaze began to fade until it disappeared entirely.

"Oh," he said, "I guess it was stupid of me to come then." He started to rise. England blinked. America's hand was on the compartment door now, beginning to engage the catch to slide it open. England felt stunned, what was happening? He had been hoping and dreading America's appearance and now he was already leaving? England reached out and caught America's wrist. If felt strange, touching him after all this time. America stared at the hand on his arm and didn't move. England's tongue felt like lead, heavy and unbendable. He swallowed, willing words to form before America could tug away and leave him with a cryptic question and a queer response.

"What do you mean 'and'?" England said.

America's brow furrowed, "Didn't you receive my letter along with the invitation?"

"I did, but..." England struggled with the admission, "I have not read it." America's expression looked conflicted, torn between elation and devastation in the same moment. He tugged his arm away from England.

"Oh, well, it was nothing really." His casual lean and lopsided smile were stiff, unreal. England knew a lie was coming, that part of America had not changed. "Really, don't bother with the damn thin. I was, uh, drinking a bit when I wrote it and next thing I knew it was in the mail. Anyway, you should just burn it when you get home. Don't trouble yourself. I have some business. I'll, uh, see you in Chicago."

Throughout the fast-paced ramble America had gotten himself through the door and into the passageway. Before England could inquire as to where on earth America thought he was going to escape on a moving train, the door had snicked shut. Conversation ended.

_Odd._ It was all England could think of the entire encounter. America had always been brash, full of bravado. He wore it like armor and wielded his confidence like a broadsword. In that speech though, he had fumbled. England reached for his breast pocket, drawing out the folded paper that America had told him to burn. It was warm from his body and he held it between two fingers as though it could spring to life and bite him.

What on earth could America have written to make him act like that?

Taking a deep breath, he carefully he picked apart the pages and spread it open on his lap. He recognized America's scrawl, the handwriting he fell into in a rush. He had a chest of letters from the rebellion all written in this hasty hand.

_England,_

_It feels strange to be writing you now after so long. I should stop, but... I feel compelled. And since you won't see me this is the only way I can tell you this._

_I couldn't remember what happened for a long time during my war with the Confederacy. I was afraid to think on it, as though he would rise up again and tear my heart out. For a long time, thinking of you made me think of him. I was so angry at you. But I guess you already knew that. I was angry at him too. I hated him for being able to say things to you that I couldn't._

_I wanted so badly for you to see me, to not look at me like nothing but a child. I still don't know if it was real or not, and I won't ask Canada, but I thought you were there in the darkness with me, holding me. I dreamed that you had kissed me and I held onto that. Probably stupid of me. Just as stupid as coming after another kiss with you when you told me you hadn't done anything._

_When I woke up next to you that morning not long after the war, I wanted... well, I guess I shouldn't put that to paper. You still didn't see me. And again when you gave Canada autonomy I thought, maybe, the times you saw us as babies to be protected was over. I couldn't bear to wake you and ask. You whispered something to me in your sleep. I didn't want you to wake up and have you contradict it in the morning light._

_I hope you will come to the exhibition and we can talk. I'm grown up and I want to know if you see me now._

_America._

Above his name scratches and lines of ink had obscured any conclusionary formal statements. England held the words in his hands and understood America's eagerness and questioning. He wanted to know if things had changed. And England realized he had failed the test that America had set up for him. By not reading the letter, he had dismissed anything America had had to say. America probably felt he'd been seen as a trifle, something England still saw as beneath his attention.

"I am a bloody fool." he said to the paper and the empty compartment, feeling it deep into his bones. Things had changed, and he needed to do something. Exactly what, he wasn't sure.

 


	5. Stay Until Daylight

Somehow, America had disappeared from the train. England was certain he checked every compartment and did not find him to say anything. Words twisted in his mind, binding him. He passed the rest of the journey into Chicago in a state, unsure what he should do. He hated that feeling. He was the most powerful nation in the world in armies, in trade, in politics. But personally, he felt as nervous as he had been before his first battle, small and alone.

He checked into the hotel in a blur and the next morning found himself in a carriage traveling to the site of the Bicentennial Columbian Exhibition, more often called the World's Fair. The booths and exhibits shared technological marvels and accomplishments from around the world. As he took them in one by one, he knew that some of his fellows from across the ocean had either been boastful or modest. Some of the displays were quite spectacular.

He found himself outside America's exhibits. The nation himself was nowhere to be seen. England imagined the moment over and over, that their eyes would meet in the crowd. Then he felt a tingle of nerves creep up his spine at the memory of the ill-advised kiss he'd given him years ago in explanation. A kiss that had brought America to his rooms seeking things he could not give him.

The feats and technological toys could not hold his attention. The future may be spread around him, but the entire day passed by in a blur. He left and began to make inquiries about where America might stay when he comes to Chicago. It didn’t take long and he soon found himself standing in front of a townhouse just as the evening lamps were being lit, a combination of electrical and gas lights creating an odd juxtaposition of the past and future.

He paused, halfway through his knock. Did he even want to do this? He felt his task so out of the ordinary it felt strange that normal life went on around him. There were men coming home from day work at their offices, families going to dinner parties, lady callers bidding their friends farewell to head to other engagements. Lights flickered on and off behind draperies and horses’ hooves clicked on the street. He swallowed and gathered his courage to knock. Once, twice, three times his hand moved the knocker.

No one answered. He tried again.

_Fool, of course he is out._ It was not terribly late in the evening and certainly America had engagements. His feeling of foolishness intensified and he felt an unbidden blush rise into his cheeks. He tried to fill the space vacated by his confidence with anger, but he could not. He turned to walk down the steps. He would walk back to his hotel, let the emotions burn off.

One foot had just landed on the sidewalk when the door opened behind him. America stood in his doorway looking disheveled. He had no jacket and his waistcoat was half unbuttoned as if he had pulled clothes on hastily so that he could go to the door.

"You don't employ a butler?" came out of England's mouth first and he cursed himself for the judgemental tone. America's surprised look slid into impassiveness.

"I'm not in this house often enough and besides I can manage." He crossed his arms and leaned on his door frame, not inviting England in, but also not outright dismissing him. England looked him up and down, why was the other so disheveled? Did he have a guest? That thought made England's stomach turn.

"I see I have disturbed you. I will call again at a more convenient hour."

"What do you want?"

"I came to say that I had read your letter. I had brought it with me. I... did not have the courage to read it before." The admission felt like showing an open wound to the one who had caused it.

"And?" There it was that question again, although with far less hope behind it this time.

"And I wanted to accept your invitation to talk. But as I said, it seems I have disturbed you." He gestured at America's clothes and the other seemed to just now realize that he hardly looked fit to be standing on his front stoop. America straightened his waist coat and pushed his glasses further up his nose.

"I was... not feeling well. You are not disturbing me, come in." He went back into the vestibule and held the door open for England. The older nation felt as though he had tied weights around his ankles as he made his way up the stairs, the time to face what had started had come.

America pushed the door shut behind him and they stood in awkward silence for a minute. The front hall was narrow, only a few ornaments to show status. England wondered if America had picked them out or if it had been a human he'd assigned to the task. America fidgeted.

"I'll make us something to eat." America said, breaking the awkward silence and darting past England. He reached out and caught the young man by the arm before he could head for the kitchens. He held fast as America looked back at him, a question in his eyes. Now that he had America before him in the dim privacy of the front hallway he let himself really look at him.

He had filled out even more from the still developing young man he'd been during the American Civil War. Far more than when he was a teenager staring down a musket and declaring his freedom from him. He was taller than England and he had to crane his neck to look up at his face, still boyish, but beginning to show maturity. England let his free hand draw a finger down one of America's cheeks, feeling a thrill in his body when America's breath caught. England realized then how little he wanted to talk.

He hooked a hand behind America's neck and pulled him closer, pressing his lips against the other nation's before he could second guess the action. America's mouth was warm and this time he did not pull away. His arms came around England's waist and held him tight, his mouth parting when England deepened the kiss. The kiss lasted for a blissful age, his fingers curling into America's shirtsleeve and the fingers of one hand poking through the mismatched button of his waist coat. When their mouths parted they were both trembling.

"You're not drunk." It was just a simple statement that fell out of America's mouth.

"No, and neither are you." They had both been the last time this happened, after all.

"No."

"And you want this?" He pressed another kiss to America's mouth, sliding one hand along the younger man's neck and beneath the collar of his shirt. When he pulled away, America laughed.

"England, I've wanted you to touch me like this since the French and Indian War." England stared into America's eyes. Confederacy had not been lying as he had pulled him towards the bed and whispered so many things into his ear. Did America know that the other part of him had said that before? The way he was looking at him, England was sure this was one of the things the other man did not remember. It was a clean slate for America. And although England had stood like this with a gray-blue eyed nation that no longer existed, it was the first time with the one he truly wanted. And heavens did he want him.

He pressed America against the wall and kissed him again, his hat falling to the floor with a quick tug of America's hand. His hands went to the buttons of America's waistcoat, pulling them out and revealing the buttoned shirt front. As his hands went for those America pulled out of the kiss.

"Wait. Not here." He took one of England's hands in his own and turned away. They headed for the stairs, and the distance between them seemed to fill England's soul with nervousness once again. He wanted this, but was it the right thing to do? He was pulled into a bedroom, the door closed behind them and America turned to him once again, pushing him into the door and kissing him once. No, right or wrong, he would not turn away from this.

The room was modestly decorated just like the front hallway. England barely glanced at the dresser along one wall, an easy chair, only taking note of the direction of the four-poster bed.

England felt like it was his first time once again, rushed and fumbling as he tried to get America out of his clothes and America tried to do the same to him. The first touch of his palm on the warm flesh of America's stomach gave him pause. He pulled back so he could examine him. His shirt off and trousers unbuttoned, he looked tousled in a way that made England want him even more.

"What's wrong?" America asked, his hands still engaged with England's shirt buttons.

The flashback was unwarranted, but he'd touched this skin before when it was worn by Confederacy. He pushed the feeling down, this time it was not the same, not at all. He shook his head in response to America's question and helped remove his shirt. The cloth on the ground, America lowered his head, pressing his face into the crook of England's neck. England buried his nose in America's hair and breathed his scent. He reveled in the feeling of America's soft lips and warm breath on the sensitive skin of his neck.

"Get on the bed, America." America pulled back and looked at him, eyes dark with desire behind his glasses. England reached up and gently unhooked the frames and lay them on the nearby dresser. America sat down on the edge of the bed and looked up at him. Memories washed over England, but none matched up with the man that was before him now. Knees spread and a flush spread across his neck and chest beckoned England closer.

"Are you going to join me?" The question had come with a mixture of lust and nerves. A smile rose on England's face, apparently their inexperience had not been something Confederacy had lied about either. In dark moments at the bottom of a pint glass in recent years England had jealously wondered who had gotten here first. Ironic that it would be him after all. He pushed his trousers and small clothes down his hips and legs savoring the open stare America gave him. England came to the edge of the bed and hooked his fingers in the remains of America's clothes.

America's hands went to England's waist, England's own hands tugging his trousers lower. America's thumb brushed a scar above his hip. "Is this from...?"

"When you shot me at Saratoga? Yes." He yanked America's trousers further down forcing him farther up on the bed. He crawled up between his legs and paused. America was still focused on the scar, brushing a furtive thumb over it. England took the moment to examine the man beneath him, more scarred than he expected him to be. He brushed his own fingers over a line on America's ribs.

"That's from when you got me at Bunker Hill. The only time you got me."

"Hmmph." England leaned down and pressed his mouth to the scar, finding America's hands with his own and pushing them up above their heads. America shifted his hips, rubbing them against one another. Lustful gasps matched in the evening twilight. "Well, this time around I intend to 'get you' in an entirely different way." He caught America's laugh in his mouth, pressing a kiss to him and tangling their tongues together.

When America whispered, "Take me," into his ear, England wondered if he had been too prideful, waited too long for this moment to arrive.

~*~

America lay curled around him, asleep. His chest pressed against England's back and his arm thrown over him. England could not sleep. He felt boneless and warm, but more restless than he'd been in recent memory. He examined his fingers interlaced with America's. Pulling the entwined fingers close he kissed the back of America's hand.

He knew they had done something they couldn't take back. This night would change everything between them. The nerves he had been feeling all the way across the ocean, to this house, forgotten in the last few hours, came rushing back.

England felt cold in the face of it. Guilt washed through him and he could not help but wonder if he'd taken Confederacy's offer all those years ago he would have gotten this out of his system. The odd feeling that had grown in the War of 1812 and become more intense when he thought he would lose America to a civil war. A stupid part of him had hoped that was what he was feeling now, a swift lay and back to business as usual. It was par for the course amongst older nations. But no, that was not what had happened between them. The connection that had always existed had firmed, twisted, impossible to tear.

He shifted, turning in America's arms, slowly, so not to wake him. America's face was relaxed in sleep and he was unbearably handsome. It was as though all the dreams and possibilities within him shone on his face, unencumbered by the masks he was learning to wear as he aged. England leaned close and brushed his lips lightly over his.

Soon, America kissed him sleepily back. England let himself exist in the kiss for a moment before a new wave of desire threatened to sap the resolve he'd been building. He put a hand between their mouths. America squinted at him in the dark.

"I have to go." England said.

"Why? Dawn is hours away yet. Stay."

"You know why I cannot stay."

America was silent, not looking at him now. His hand lay at the small of England's back, holding him, possessive. The promise of that touch made England want to stay indefinitely. "You want us to keep this quiet."

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"As long as it needs to be kept." America pulled away from him abruptly, rolling onto his back and pulling his arm out from beneath England's body. The distance seemed to fill with a rush of cold night air.

"I'm not afraid of them gossiping." he said.

England felt warmth flood his chest, bringing a small smile to his face. He reached through the chasm between them and rested his hand on America's cheek, turning his face to look at him. "I think that is one of the reasons why... why I love you." The words had rushed out of him. Was that what the feeling he'd been holding at bay was?

"You love me?" Here was a second chance to take the words back, to deny them as a slip of the tongue. However, in the raw newness of what they'd done, honesty poured from his lips.

"Yes." America smiled then, a pure genuine thing that made England's heart flutter. He moved to take England back into his arms, but England was now the one who pulled back. "But I still have to go."

"You'll come back?"

"I will do my best. I've left you alone for far too long." He pulled himself out of the warmth of America's bed and began to dress. America watched him. Before leaving England leaned over him and pressed on last kiss to his mouth. Hours before daylight he was gone from the house, feeling as though a weight had been lifted off his chest.

If he had known he would not see him for more than a minute at a time over the next twenty years a team of horses would not have been able to pull him from America's arms.

~*~

_December 1916, London_

England felt as though he would never be warm again. The fire in the grate burned bright and sunlight streamed in through the garden window, but he still pulled the heavy blanket tighter around his shoulders. It was the first time anyone had been able to pull him off the battlefield since the conflict began. He was only here in the day room of his London house because he'd collapsed in a trench, and they had pulled him away. If he had been conscious he would have been laying in an army cot, not the plush reading chair he sat in. His own bed felt foreign to him now, too soft and normal. He had not touched it in the days since he arrived. This chair would serve while men slept in the freezing mud, why did he deserve any more comfort? He felt guilty for being here in his pajamas in a cocoon of warmth and safety.

The soft clinking of a tea tray set on the table beside him pulled his eyes away from the unkempt garden covered in snow. Canada looked apologetic as if he had dropped it. "I thought you could eat something and maybe try to rest?"

Canada meant well, England knew. He could feel it in his bones. A self-deprecating smile came to his lips. "You know why I can't rest, I was resting when--"

"Australia and New Zealand will forgive you one day." Canada interrupted, England supposed he shouldn't be as surprised by anything anymore. Canada had proven to be far more than he thought he could be since the start of the conflict. "They are grieving for their people. They won't hate you forever."

"I hope not." England turned back to the garden, ignoring the hot cup of tea and the sandwich on the plate. The roses must have escaped their normally well pruned shapes during the summers he’d been away, it was if they had become feral. England couldn't help but think the War to End All Wars had done more than make his plants feral. He felt feral himself.

Canada settled into the stiff backed chair he'd been sitting in for days at England's side. As much as he cared for the boy right now, he wanted desperately for him to leave. "How is America?" he asked suddenly, almost absentmindedly, "Is he still pretending there isn't a war on?"

Silence. He turned to look at him, but instead of the offended expression he had been expecting, there was only pity. That made him feel worse for bringing it up.

"If you have something to say, say it."

"That isn't fair and you know it. You are the one who told him to stop writing you."

"How do you know about that?"

"He told me."

A rap sounded on the front door, surprising them both. Canada didn't move until the knock came again. England asked, "Who could be calling?"

"I'll get it." He left the room. Pulling the folds of the blanket tighter around himself, England drooped in the chair. He listened to the muffled voices coming from the hallway. The sound of two bodies colliding came a moment later. Whomever it was, Canada must be embracing them. Curious, England turned towards the door of the room. Footsteps coming closer were muffled on the carpet.

He could hear Canada's voice now, still quiet. "He is not doing well, you should prepare yourself." Two identical faces appeared in the doorway. A swirl of emotions hit England square in the chest. America looked back and seemed frozen to the carpet. England felt as if the numbness of his heart for the last several years began to thaw, a limb tingling painfully back into life.

"What are you doing here?"

"I sent for him." Canada said, before America even got a chance to speak, or perhaps he could not. He looked shocked, and England knew he must look dreadful. He turned his face away, planning to bury it in the blanket, certain this was nothing but a cruel dream. Footsteps, and a hand on his cheek drew his attention back. America was on his knees in front of England's chair, a pose he had assumed once before in what felt so long ago. He had wanted England to face him then, and England remembered how badly he'd wanted to kiss him, how he had kissed him. He reached out his own hand, feeling the frailty of exhaustion and touched America's cheek. America grasped his hand and pulled his palm to his lips.

Clearing his throat to get their attention, Canada asked, "Do you have him?"

"I've got him. Thanks, Canada." The North Americans shared the small smile they often gave one another, it was an expression England used to envy, sure it was more than the brotherly affection it truly was. Canada left, explaining that he would be back in the morning. If they needed him, he was only a call away.

The front door clicked shut and America lowered his head into England's lap. His shoulders shook and England realized he was crying. Putting a hand on the younger nation's head he made soothing sounds. "There now, I don't look that bad do I?"

"I should be doing something."

"You should." England said, but there was no venom in his voice. He knew he should feel some anger. He had earlier in the war, but it seemed washed away from him now. America lifted his head, pulling off his glasses to wipe at his eyes.

"You know I would if I could."

"I do. I'm not really angry anymore... to be honest, I was looking forward to being on the same side for once. Although I suppose it would be too much to ask for you to follow my orders." His attempt at humor got a small smile.

"It will. I have a feeling they will decide soon."

"Good." He traced America's features, savoring the warmth of his skin. His exhaustion tried to pull him under, he closed his eyes for a moment, then forced them open again.

"Canada said you won't sleep."

England shook his head, letting his eyes drift to his lap, "I'm shocked that Canada is here at all. I've let them down, the Dominions. He should hate me, as you hated me."

"I never hated you."

"You are a terrible liar."

"All right, there was that time you burned D.C. And when you helped Confederacy."

"There had to have been more times than that."

"Probably, but I can't remember them right now. I'll think of them for you while you sleep."

"What a charming prospect. Hey now!" America had reached into the chair and scooped him up in his arms. Beyond the initial shock, England found he didn't have the strength to protest, his body giving into the warmth of America's body cradling his own.

~*~

He must have slept for hours, because twilight now crept through the open drapes of his bedroom. He rubbed a hand over his face, the wave of guilt washing over him again. He turned and flinched when he caught America's eye. America looked apologetic for startling him.

"Do you want me to get something for you to eat?" America asked. There was a tray at his elbow that he must have been eating from himself. "There are a few things here that could tide you over while I make something else."

"No."

"England, you should eat."

"Not now. Get into the bed with me."

America hesitated. "I don't know if that is such a good idea."

"Please."

America nodded and shrugged out of his jacket. He unlaced his shoes slowly, giving England space to change his mind. He pulled his belt off and dropped it beside his shoes. England scooted over for him as America slid beneath the covers. England pressed up against him, laying his head on his shoulder. America's arms came around him and his hand moved up and down his back. The touch was light on his nightshirt, examining. England pressed closer tangling his legs with America's and burying his nose in the starched collar of America's shirt. The scent of laundry soap and male sweat pushed the battlefields further from his mind. The stink of dirt, blood, illness, mustard gas, and gunpowder felt like a painful memory rather than a harsh reality that he needed to return to as soon as possible. America pressed his lips against England's forehead.

"I won't break." England whispered, wrapping himself up in America as completely as he could.

"I just was thinking that I should have come sooner."

"Shh, you're here now." He heard America take a breath to reply, but he spoke again, "You asked me in that letter you sent during the World's Fair whether or not it was a dream that I had come to you and held you in your darkness. I never answered you."

"You didn't."

"Well, that did happen. I could not stay away from you. I had to see you."

"I think I know what you mean. It's funny, when Canada called me... I was just thinking that I should come to you despite what my boss and Congress thinks. I needed to be with you." He shifted England in his arms so they lay face to face.

England touched the corner of America's mouth, wishing he would smile instead of this show of soberness. There was enough sober melancholy back on the Front with the others. "You are being very serious."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you. But I guess that's not new is it?"

"The only thing that disappoints me right now is that you have not kissed me once since you arrived." He caught America off guard with the tone he had used in the past to lecture him. "If I'm going to be on forced leave, and I'm sure that Canada expects you to hold me to it, I expect you to do me this courtesy."

"Did Canada forget to tell me that you took a shell to the head?" America laughed, breaking the tension between them. He leaned forward and gave England the kiss he had held onto since that night he had crawled out of America's bed for such a foolish reason as propriety. His fingers drifted across the buttons of America's shirt, unfastening them one by one. They were slowly reduced to skin, desiring the closeness with one another.

He knew then that all of the darkness that could pass over them and between them could never be forever. Forgiveness was something they could share. The bond would not be broken.

"Don't let go of me."

"I won't."

"Promise me you won't be gone by daylight."

"I promise. I love you"

_The End._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who encouraged me to add to this story! I really enjoyed it and I hope you did as well!


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